


Not Tango

by AlexisGreen (thealexmachina)



Category: Mass Effect - All Media Types, Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Military, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Military, Military Backstory, Porn with Feelings, Smut, everyone is human
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-18
Updated: 2018-08-18
Packaged: 2019-06-29 08:21:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15725586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thealexmachina/pseuds/AlexisGreen
Summary: This is for Ms_saboteur, who asked for the Citadel DLC scene in my Killing Field universe. I am so sorry this is late, but I hope you like it. Thank you for all your support, from the beginning. <333





	Not Tango

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ms_Saboteur](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ms_Saboteur/gifts).



> This is for Ms_saboteur, who asked for the Citadel DLC scene in my Killing Field universe. I am so sorry this is late, but I hope you like it. Thank you for all your support, from the beginning. <333

The Dane next to him turns to investigate. Garrus smiles, a flash of red in the bar mirrors. He sips his beer, the cool of the local _Imperial_ barely a barrier against the humidity in the air. Murmurs intensify; their mark now pays attention, eyes turning towards the door. A last-minute detour south of Miami, their mission in San Juan is intercepting a data sale that would jeopardise a lot of the progress they’ve made in uncovering Saren’s network, and make someone very rich in the process. This guy, three seats down the polished, mahogany counter more precisely. He fits the description they were given, burly Argentinian, with a taste for single malt and fresh meat. Not of the farm-reared kind.

Jane reaches the bar; both waiters race to get her a drink. The dress she wears is a knockout he’s never seen before, a crimson red thing that hangs off tiny straps and flows below her knees. It matches her hair, sets off the paleness of her skin. Enticing. And not just to him. Her quick instruction to add a few drops of water and hold the ice earns her an appreciative look from the man on her left.

 _Hello, Adolfo Boccardo_ , Garrus thinks and signals for another beer. He turns, elbows on the tall bar, and counts three bodyguards in the room, their mark’s entourage. Beer to his lips, he calls their position to James Vega, their local liaison in San Juan. The Dane settles his bill; he’s made a couple attempts to chat Jane up but he’s been ignored soundly. Adolfo though is currently elbow-deep into the bait they’ve set, pouring himself a generous serving of 15-year old Laphroaig that the bartended left. Jane holds her own – one of the reasons she’s bait tonight, and not Miranda – and laughs at his bad jokes. Garrus recognises the fake laughter, a little too high pitched to be genuine, but in the bar everyone’s eyes are on her, none the wiser. As they should, he thinks, the bounce of her hair, messed by the large ceiling fan, the slip of a strap down one shoulder. Who’s he kidding, most see the legs that are made to wrap around someone’s waist and an ass tighter than a stripper.

On cue, the music starts. “Thanks, Jeff,” Garrus says, and gives their navigator a mental high-five for the impeccable timing. Mind back to the mission, he observes Jane trying to coerce the gangster into a dance. Alas, her lure has its limits; she moves backwards, hips snapping in rhythm, showing their mark what he’s missing out on. A flurry of red skirts, knees and thighs occasionally on show, she’s breath-taking, a dream. Garrus thinks he should take her out dancing sometime, then he snorts. He can’t remember when they had a holiday uninterrupted by work. Maybe when they make it to France for Christmas. She looks like she actually enjoys this bit of their mission. The song changes, a smoother beat, one that suits a couple. Jane heads his way this time, pretending to ask for a dance partner, motioning to the other couples moving together. Garrus fakes thinking about it, takes a few moments before he accepts her invitation, then follows her into the crowd.

“A tango would have been better,” he says. Her smile is half hidden in his shoulder, but he feels the stretch of her lips against the fabric of his shirt and can’t help responding in kind, even though his eyes don’t stop scanning the room. “Did you get it?”

“Left pocket,” Jane replies.

Their legs aligned, they move to the frenetic music, half bachata, half merengue, the song a languid story of a love lost. They practiced together a couple of times but truth is, after years of fighting and years of loving, they have their own rhythm, Jane leading and Garrus shadowing, one loud, one quiet, roles reversing when needed. Or wanted.

Arm circling Jane’s waist, hand curled naturally around her hip, Garrus drops another matchbook sized device into the pocket she indicated, a step to the left masking his movement. In two minutes, the data on Boccardo’s drive will be copied and transmitted, ready for Jeff to decrypt. When done, Jeff will inject a virus into the original device. When the song finishes, Jane will return to the bar for a second round of flirting and slip it back into Boccardo’s pocket. In two minutes, the world will be slightly safer and their squad closer to the truth. The song weaves on, lyrics now suggestive, the body of a woman leaving marks on a man’s soul. Two minutes of slow dancing, Garrus’ hand on her back, feeling her skin burning under his. Hips mould together, slide to the right. Slow turn to the left, hands clasped together. Two minutes of anticipation, another successful mission on the horizon, another step closer to their target, even as their bodies tease-

They both sense the change in atmosphere, seconds before the cloning program finishes. Boccardo pats his pockets, incredulous look giving way to anger. Two of his goons move on him, attuned to his body language. It gives them only moments to react.

“Jeff, what’s going on?”

“I started the virus upload early, figured I’d buy us some time. Must have triggered a security alert in the protocol.” Joker’s disembodied voice rings in both their ears. Jane and Garrus exchange exasperated looks.

“Vega, on my nine o’clock,” Garrus says. To Jane, he adds, “On my three, spin to Vega, pass him the dongle.”

So much for their two minutes of quiet. With a drag of fingers from shoulder to hip, Garrus sends Jane spinning, one twirl, two, three, until Vega catches her, device exchanging hands in a flash. She’s intercepted by one of Boccardo’s bodyguards before she can return to Garrus. Rough hands take their time patting her down, but Jane just laughs it off, gesturing back to the Argentinian, a very rude depiction of a blow job that Garrus plans to have her repeat to him later. He gets a similar treatment from the third bodyguard. There’s nothing to find on either of them, Vega long gone by now, so they’re both allowed to leave, taking different routes to their hotel, both plotting ways to teach Joker a few lessons in patience.

Late in the night, debriefs to Anderson done, Garrus and Jane slip out of the quarters the squad occupies in a very hippy neighbourhood of the city. In the lobby, Jane slips a few notes to the receptionist and walks back to him, a bottle of Padron in one hand and promise, or is that sin, in her eyes. She drags Garrus out, through the crowd on the terrace, past the few couples who linger way beyond the closing time, swaying with the music that lives everywhere in the city, music that long ago turned mellow.

They stop by the swimming pool, notes of a sad song still in the breeze. They kiss with burning lips, Garrus sketching a few dance steps that make Jane laugh and fall into his arms. It’s late and time would be better spent resting ahead of their morning flight out, but neither cares, the night balmy around them, the moon a thin razor slice above them. Their dancing is slow, barely any movement at all, unlike the earlier show. For a while, his lips on her temple, arms around each other, it’s all they need. Then her hips catch a bit of the rhythm and her body moves from there, in leisurely swings, tits rubbing on his chest. Jane turns, the same beat in her hips, and takes a swig of tequila, head tilted on Garrus’ shoulder. That’s all it takes and one of his hands finds her tits, squeezes one hard, while the other bunches the bottom of her dress and slips underneath to cup her cunt.

They crash into a lounger, lying down more than sitting, Jane on top. Tequila tastes good, even better drunk from each other’s mouth, but soon it’s abandoned. Garrus’ hand teases the side of her throat, where her pulse spikes. The button at the top front of her dress is just there for show; a little pressure and the fabric gives, parting to show milky skin. His hands leave goose bumps in their wake, when he rips the bodice apart further and brings his head down to one breast, biting, licking. Biting again. Mouth hungry, fingers greedy where they skim up her thighs and rip the panties she wet a while ago.

Jane drags the same wetness across the seam of his jeans, hips syncing with the suck of his mouth. She knows this mood - this _I can’t get enough_ mood he gets sometimes, when too much work or too much distance gets between them - so she doesn’t hurry him, despite the fire inside her that each bite unleashes. Sure hands pin her to him regardless, digging into her ass, the angle of his body providing pressure to her clit, a fabulous balance of more and not sufficient that makes her head spin.

Garrus kisses her just as he reaches under her body to tease her lips, swallows the gasp that leaves her, swallows each moan she rewards his teasing with, harder, rougher, until he takes pity on them both and unzips his jeans just enough to get his cock out and to shove inside her, deep. He lets her find her own pace, feet planted either side of the lounger, hips obscured by her dress, until he gathers it around her waist to enjoy the show. When she gets tired, he takes over, holds her thighs spread open as he pumps up into her, vicious thrusts that make her head loll backwards. His teeth are back on her throat, on a soft spot he likes just below her hairline. He sucks on it, then bites down, tongue wicked in the aftermath.

Jane whines, the feel of his cock inside addictive but rapture just out of reach, so Garrus tips her backwards, pushes her flat and up then ducks down to catch her clit between his teeth, sucking on her. She comes, damn his reach and flexibility, thighs tights around his head, voice drowned by the music that still carries from the terrace. He watches her climb down, legs slowly relaxing, then he surges back into her welcoming folds. The muscles in his arms seize.  Hot satisfied Jane is his brand of aphrodisiac so his own orgasm builds quick; he pulls out and shoots all over her tits, his come painting her chest on top the marks he put there with his teeth earlier.

He slumps back, and Jane crawls to him, lying on top, laughter in her voice. “I don’t want to leave. What excuse can we give Anderson, see if we can spend another day here?”

Garrus snorts in her hair, coherent thought stretching only as far as how to get her to their room in a ripped dress. Maybe with his shirt on top; hopefully no one will notice the come stains. Maybe he’ll take her out for a proper dance tomorrow, if they earn a reprieve. Or maybe he'll keep her in bed all day. Maybe.  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Feedback gives me wings. And if you fancied this, there's more human and super confident Garrus in Biting and Killing Field. Cheers! <333


End file.
